


Because you can't just not answer

by motionalocean



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception-kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motionalocean/pseuds/motionalocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inception-kink <a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20822.html?thread=51577942#t51577942">prompt</a>: Arthur is in the middle of a gunfight when he receives a phone call from Eames asking him what he's wearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because you can't just not answer

**Author's Note:**

> Self-beta'd. Concrit welcome!

Arthur’s not sure why he answers. His right hand is busy with the Beretta, his head is busy with the bits of cement embedded in his left temple, and his ears are ringing so much he could legitimately say he hadn’t heard the call. He feels it, though, buzzing in the pocket of his jeans, and his left hand fishes it out as he takes another peek around the dimpled corner of the building.

“Eames, I hope to hell you’re calling to say you’ve got backup.”

The pause is long, and Arthur takes a shot at a shoe he can see under the car. _Six_. The shoe becomes a torso, and another shot ensures the body stays down. _Five_.

“Seriously, Eames. These might be the last words I hear, so they better be good.”

A gun, sneaking around the side of a barrier. Arthur waits for the head to follow, then pulls the trigger. _Four_.

“What are you wearing, Arthur?”

The tone’s off, really, but it’s the words that make Arthur’s brain reboot. He stares at his phone for a few crucial seconds, then ends the call. A shot whizzes past his corner, and he scrabbles to make sure all his limbs are hidden.

Eames will be the death of him.

Predictably, the phone rings again.

“Honestly? I’m fighting for my life, asking for backup or some intel or even a fucking civil word for what has been a truly shitty day, and you want _phone sex_?”

He shouldn’t have answered. He would probably live longer, and would definitely die saner, if he just learned that sometimes, _you don’t answer the phone_.

“I’m serious, darling, tell me what you’re wearing.”

Arthur scuttles back into his corner as more shots chip into the cement of the building.

“Jeans, ripped in the left knee and a horrible blood stain on the right hip. Grey striped button-up that’s… yeah, two buttons missing –” he checks the street, fucker running towards him, center of mass, _three_ “- rolled to the elbow. My shoes are like, so scuffed you wouldn’t recognize them, and my tie has died a sad, sorry death.”

“I meant more _under_ your clothes, Arthur. Specificity.”

Arthur resisted the urge to unzip his jeans to check. “Uh. Navy boxer briefs? Look, Eames, I’m about to die here. So really, you have reached a level of morbid that I just can’t understand.”

There’s the sound of something moving in the background, though it’s faint through the yelling that surrounds him and the ringing in his ears.

The corpse under the car gets dragged away, and a live one takes its place only to meet the same fate. _Two_. The returning bullet clips Arthur in the shoulder. The Beretta falls from his spasming hand.

“Bugger. The big guns are coming, love, they’re going to hit your building. You need to get across the street. Ten seconds. Can you do that?”

Can he do that? It’s not like he’s got a personal attachment to this corner, or anything.

“I’m going to have to put you on hold, Mr. Eames.”

He slides the phone back into his pocket, grabs the gun left-handed, peeks around the building – dear god, the rebar is showing, they’ve really chewed it up – and fires two shots towards where the remaining shooters might be hiding. _Zero_.

Time to run.

Everything around him is a blur. The one point of focus is the police station across the street, complete with bullet-proof windows. He can’t see the bullets, but knows from the sound of shots that they must be flying around him.

He hears a roar, looks away from the shooters – _a rocket launcher, really?_ – and then the door is being pulled open, the building he was using as cover is dissolving, the cars are going up in flames, and he dives through the door before more shrapnel can find his skin.

A familiar face is looking down at him. Eames’s smirk is a bit tenser than usual, but ten points for effort.

“You’re in the middle of a gun fight, I call to ask if you’re wearing any body armour, and your mind jumps to _phone sex_? Seriously, Arthur, I don’t understand you.”

Arthur slumps onto the floor, his head smacking into cool tile as all strength leaves his body.

Eames will be the death of him. Just, maybe, not today.

**Author's Note:**

> Body armor wouldn't do diddly against a rocket launcher, I'm sure, but I like to think that Eames is being a bit of a troll. And is also confident that Arthur will survive long enough to enjoy the joke. Because Arthur is a bamf, no?


End file.
